r 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


CITY   DUST 


CITY  DUST 


3Y 

JANE  BURR t 


NEW  YORK 
FRANK  SHAY 

1916 


Copyright  1916 

by 
Frank  Shay 


PS 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 
A  TRIBUTE 


CITY    DUST 


SPRING 

1  piped  when  I  opened  my  eyes  to  the  day, 

And  the  inner  me  murmured,  "How  can  you  be  gay? 

You've  fluttered  too  high  and  you've  broken  your  wing- 

There's  never  a  reason  why  cripples  should  sing!" 

"But  it's  Spring!"  I  said,  "It's  Spring!" 
And  I  called  it  a  garden — my  shabby  old  room 
And  I  danced  to  the  wall-paper  roses  in  bloom; 

And  the  inner  me  murmured,  "What  does  it  all  bring! 

You're  a  sparrow,  a  cricket,  a  silly  young  thing!" 
I  answered,  "I  know,  but  it's  Spring!" 


CITY   DUST 

THE  GOLDEN  SEASON 

He  came  to  me  with  a  light  on  his  brow, 

And  he  sang  of  Mexico ; — 
And  he  said  "There'll  be  a  peach  of  a  row 

Oh  mother  I  want  to  go — 

Oh  mother  you'll  let  me  go !" 

Then  back  through  more  than  a  dozen  years 

Came  the  ghost  of  an  April  day, 
And  the  tramp — tramp — tramp — and  the  ringing  cheers- 

And  the  fifes  that  tried  to  be  gay — 

And  the  drums  that  tried  to  be  gay ! 

And  I  lifted  my  budding  boy  again 

And  I  felt  him  tremble  and  thrill 
At  the  sight  of  our  homing — shattered  men — 

Our  men  that  were  pale  and  ill — 

Our  men  that  would  always  be  ill ! 

And  I  showed  him  the  gap  in  every  line — 

For  the  dead  don't  march  along; 
My  blood  was  ice  but  his  own  ran  wine, 

And  he  sang  them  a  soldier's  song — 

He  shouted  a  soldier's  song! 

His  faith  was  new  so  my  lips  were  dumb 

And  I  hid  in  the  dark  to  cry, 
While  his  heart  beat  time  to  the  fife  and  drum! 

His  hope  was  too  young  to  die — 

It's  still  too  young  to  die! 


IT  RESTS  WITH  YOU 

The  puny  self  we  think  so  great 
Is  just  a  bubble  blown  by  fate — 
And  yours  may  be  of  rain-bowed  hope, 
Or  yours  may  be — well — merely  soap ! 


11 


CITY   DUST 

WONDERFUL  HANDS 

The  hands  of  a  wonderful  woman,  you  say — 
Sculped  by  a  god  from  the  heart  of  his  clay? 
Slender  and  white, 
Waxen,  unstained, 
Royally  veined, 
Sheened  with  the  warmth  of  a  purified  light? 

The  hands  of  a  wonderful  woman,  I  say — 
Plunged  into  shape  from  the  leavings  of  clay: 
Muscles  and  bone, 
Brutally  scarred, 
Knotted  and  tarred, 
Stout  to  the  feel  as  a  mallet  of  stone ! 

Scars  that  she  won  when  she  fought  for  her  seed, 
Muscle  she  earned  when  she  slaved  for  their  need, 
Smut  for  her  pay, — 
Wrinkled  and  notched, 
Toughened  and  blotched, 
The  hands  of  a  wonderful  woman,  I  say ! 


THE  TENEMENT'S  TITHE 

Little  white  banners  of  roses  and  crepe 

Are  wilting  at  tenement  doors ; 
Little  white  mothers  are  staring  agape 

And  tip-toing  tenement  floors. — 

And  off  by  the  rim  of  the  green,  creaming  sea 

With  millions  of  acres  to  spare, 
The  babes  of  the  RULERS  are  frolicking  free 

In  the  cool  of  God's  spindrift  and  air. 


12 


CITY    DUST 

MY  HUSBAND'S  FOLKS 

Have  you  ever  tried  to  warm  your  soul  and  rub  your  hands 

to  life, 

When  the  breath  of  people  froze  you  through  and  through — 
Have  you  ever  closed  your  eyes — a  maid,  and  open  them  a 

wife 

In  a  strange,  uncharted  world  you  thought  you  knew? 
Have  you  waited  for  the  welcome  of  your  hungry  little  being 
Till  you  felt  the  angry  moment  when  the  brain  within  you 

smokes, 
Have  they  bidden  you  good-morning  with  their  marble  eyes 

unseeing? — 
Oh,  I'll  make  them  love  me  yet — my  husband's  folks! 

Have  they  found  you  dull  and  stupid  when  they  hoped  you 

would  be  wise, 

Have  they  told  you  when  to  weep  and  when  to  smile, 
Have  they  thought  your  hair  unlovely,  have  they  criticised 

your  eyes, 

Have  they  thought  you  just  a  bit  home-made  in  style? 
Have  they  chatted  personalities  and    never    once    explained 

them, 

Have  they  giggled  over  subtle  family  jokes, 
Have  they  forced  their  set  opinions  on  your  soul  and  then 

ingrained  them? 
Oh,  I'll  make  them  love  me  yet — my  husband's  folks ! 

If  my  hair  were  of  the  sunshine  and  my  eyes  were  of  the 

stars, 

If  my  soul  were  soft  as  any  breeze  that  blows, 
If  my  coffers  glinted  goldener  and  fuller  than  the  Czar's 

If  my  flesh  were  of  the  jasmine  and  the  rose — 
I  would  still  be  something  alien  that  one  takes  no  slightest 

care  of, 

Something  dashed  against  the  family-polished-spokes! 
When  that  son  of  mine  goes  wooing,  I'll  have  breakers  to  be 
ware  of, 
And  I'll  make  them  love  me  yet — my  husband's  folks! 

13 


CITY    DUST 


THE  HOLOCAUST 


I  built  an  altar  in  the  wood 

And  knelt  and  poured  into  the  flame, 
The  bitter  lees  of  loverhood — 

A  dream  ...  a  tenderness  ...  a  name. 

"Leap  flame!     Curl  smoke!     Blow  wind  and  free 

The  crumbling  ash  of  my  regret! 
Let  him  take  thought  no  more  of  me — 

If  so  he  please — I  too  forget!" 

Wind  blew,  smoke  curled,  the  fanned  fire  leapt; 

Against  my  eyes,  the  world  went  dim, 
And  homeward  through  the  dark  I  crept, 

Without  a  memory  of  him. 

But  when  the  Spring  had  ruffled  through ; 

When  lovers  in  the  bracken  chirred; 
When  leaf  and  bud  were  summer-new — 

Old  struggling  tendernesses  stirred. 

I  wandered  back  where  ivies  twine, 

And  there  I  found  still  sweet  with  myrrhs, 
The  altar  mellowed  to  a  shrine — 

A  rose  and  I  the  worshippers. 

THE  MARROW  OF  LIFE 

The  country  stillness  soothes  me — for  a  night,  perhaps  a  day — 

And  then  the  city  calls  me  and  I  must  be  on  my  way, 

To   the   reeking,    cluttered   back-streets   and   the   sickly   city 

sights, 

And  the  grime  and  stain  and  terror  of  evil  city  nights. 
Oh  you  may  throb  to  nature  and  nature's  roundelay, 
But  mine  are  city  pulses  that  beat  with  city  fray ; 
And  I'd  rather  salve  one  sorrow  and  dry  one  human's  tears 
Than  pick  a  million  daisies  for  a  million,  million  years ! 

14 


CITY   DUST 


THE  EXILE 


There's  a  dismal  sort  of  comfort  in  the  miles  that  lie  between 
All  this  melancholy  Northland  and  my  sunny  Southern  Green, 
For  the  ships  can  sail  me  bravely  to  the  palm  entangled  shore, 
But  there  are  no  ships  to  sail  me  down  the  Spring-tide  any 

more, 
Where  the  nights  were  meant  for  play  time  and  the  mornings 

meant  for  rest, 

And  every  day  was  holiday  and  Christmas  day  was  best ; 
Where  old  stockin'-footed  Tilly  built  a  fire  upon  the  grate 
And  whispered  near  my  bed-side  like  an  ebon-tinted  fate — 

"Chris'mas  gif  Miss  Rosie!" 

And  it  wasn't  Christmas  morning  like  the  Christmasses  you 

know, 
With  the  tinkle  of  the  sleigh-bells  and  the  swirling  drifts  of 

snow: 

Just  a  sunny  lazy  Christmas  full  of  languerous  desire — 
And  the  darkies  roastin'  bacon  on  the  forks  before  the  fire, 
And  the  pop-corn  in  the  popper  and  the  kettle  on  the  crane, 
And  the  'taters  in  the  ashes  and  the  family  home  again, 
And  the  little  shoat  and  cracklin'  turk  the  best  that  could  be 

found, 
And  the  darkies  grinnin'  at  the  tree  and  whisperin'  around — 

"Chris'mas  gif  Miss  Rosie!" 

I  am  glad  the  lazy  Southland  cannot  claim  me  any  more, 
With  my  coffee  and  my  little  satin  slippers  on  the  floor; 
For  Northern  living's  braver  and  I  meet  the  midnight  hush 
With  a  thrill,  for  I  am  part  of  all  the  power  and  the  rush  \ 
But  I  hate  your  Christmas  mornings  and  your  bitter  Christ 
mas  cold 

And  I  shut  my  eyes  and  doze  again  to  keep  from  feelin'  old, 
For  I  want  to  go  back  home  and  stay  the  whole  long  Christ 
mas  day — 

Just  to  lazy  with  the  family  and  to  hear  the  darkies  say — 
"Chris'mas  gif  Miss  Rosie!" 

15 


CITY    DUST 

THE  DEBUTANTE 

Oh,  beat  your  drums  and  ring  your  brass, 

You  wonder-world  of  sham, 
I've  found  out  in  my  looking-glass, 

How  beautiful  I  am ! 
So  what's  the  use  of  deeper  things — 

Of  thinking  wrong  or  right — 
For  I  have  found  a  songbird's  wings, 

And  know  a  songbird's  flight ! 

Go  nature !     Blow  your  breezes  high 

And  fan  my  cheeks  to  rose, 
And  light  the  sparkle  in  my  eye 

To  please  an  hundred  beaux ; 
For  I  have  beaux  to  trample  down 

And  beaux  to  love  and  hate — 
I've  courtiers  all  about  the  town 

From  which  to  choose  my  mate ! 

So  sing  me  in  and  sing  me  out, 

The  earth's  a  lovely  place, 
And  all  the  loveliness  about 

Is  mirrored  in  my  face. 
Oh,  beat  your  drums  and  ring  your  brass, 

You  wonder-world  of  sham, 
I've  found  out  in  my  looking  glass 

How  beautiful  I  am ! 

ALL  THE  SAME  LOVE 

She  came  with  her  red,  red,  lips  aglow — 
With  her  joy  and  her  passionate  leaven, 

And  lifted  you  up  when  you  would  or  no 
To  the  tip-top  skies  of  heaven! 

She  went  with  her  thin  old  lips  gone  gray, 
And  none  of  you  ever  missed  her — 

And  she  loves  her  poor  in  a  sacreder  way — 
The  faded  old  charity  sister. 

16 


CITY    DUST 
THE  FOUNDLING  BABY 

They  gave  him  to  me ! 
They  gave  him  to  me  for  the  asking! 
They  gave  him  to  me  for  nothing! 
They  gave  him  to  me — a  baby — 
A  whole,  round,  God-made  baby— 
With  big  brown  eyes — 
Just  brown,  brown,  brown  down  into  the  depths  of  all  his 

secrets. 

And  his  forehead  was  wrinkled  with  thought 
Of  which  way  his  mother  had  gone, 
And  of  where  lay  his  dead  father, 
And  of  whether  they  thirsted  for  him,  sometime, 
As  he  thirsted  for  them  all  time — 
The  brown-eyed  baby! 

He  still  remembered  his  mother's  breast ; 

I  held  him  warm  against  my  own; 

1  accepted  him; 

I  crushed  him  to  me,  but  he  accepted  nobody. 

He  pushed  himself  back,  squirming  like  an  indifferent  kitten ! 

I  made  no  fragile  lacy  fluffs  for  him  to  wear — 
I  was  too  busy  loving  him  and  learning  him. 

And  then  one  day  he  was  still  and  his  lips  were  pale 

And  they  pressed  that  white  ether  mask  over  his  face 

And  sent  him  into  a  little  death. 

And  when  he  opened  his  wavering  eyes, 

Those  pale  lips  that  had  never  made  a  real  word 

And  the  little  pink  velvet  tongue 

Moved  unevenly  and  cried,  "Ma-ma!" 

And  I  kissed  him  and  he  wanted  to  be  kissed. 

And  they  told  me  to  leave  him  with  strangers, 

17 


CITY    DUST 

But  I  would  not — for  I  alone,  except  for  the  lost  mother, 

Knew  all  his  little  ceremonies. 

I  gave  him  a  silver  spoon  in  his  left  fist 

And  the  corner  of  a  woolen  blanket  in  his  right  fist, 

And  he  tickled  his  chin  and  went  to  sleep — 

For  I  alone,  except  for  the  lost  mother, 

Knew  all  his  little  ceremonies. 

And  when  he  came  back,  well  again, 

He  began  to  walk — queer,  unsteady,  forward,  comical, 

Racing  disjointedly  against  his  wish   and  thumping  to   the 

floor; 

Picking  his  little  self  up  without  crying 
And  racing  disjointedly  again, 
Tangling  himself  up  in  the  rugs — 
Queer,  unsteady,  forward,  comical. 

One  glorious  day  he  rushed  forward  to  me, 

His  arms  outstretched, 

And  smacked  his  lips  against  my  hand, 

And  against  my  dress, 

And  against  my  knee, 

And  against  any  part  of  me  that  he  could  reach, 

And  against  all  the  air  about  me 

Till   the  whole  wide  world  was  filled  with   smacking  baby 

kisses — 

The  little  kissing  birdie ! 
Unending  realms  of  gratitude ! 
My  baby  had  accepted  me ! 


METTLE 

The  quick  little  beat  of  the  gay  little  heart, 
The  struggle  to  love  and  the  struggle  to  part, 
The  proud  little  smile  and  the  brave  little  sons: — 
When  heaven's  a  guess  and  the  world  is  all  wrong! 

18 


CITY   DUST 

WHAT  FOOLS  YE  BE! 

You  would  have  your  babes  magicians,  you  would  have  them 

dukes  and  kings, 

You  would  have  them  snatch  the  stars  from  out  the  sky, 
You   would   have   them    sculp   and    scribble,   you  -would    give 

them  victor's  wings 
You  would  have  them  gulp  the  earth  before  they  die! 

And  the  men  who  live  by  magic  cannot  still  their  stifling  pain, 
And  the  men  who  search  the  sky  are  bleak  and  pale, 

And  the  sculptors  and  the  scribblers  and  the  men  who  live  by 

gain 
Are  the  souls  who  think  they  conquer — but  they  fail! 

I  would  have  my  babies  sing  and  dance  to  timbrel  and  to  fife, 
I  would  have  them  laugh  and  find  the  journey  gay, 

I    would    have    them    cherry-lipped    and    apple-cheeked    and 

thrilled  with  life, 
I  would  have  them  with  their  heels  upon  the  clay! 

MAGIC 

So  stealthily  the  winter  came, 

I  did  not  see  the  brown  leaves  fall — 
I  did  not  feel  the  Autumn  flame 

Nor  hear  the  robin's  farewell  call ! 

Somehow,  someway,  I  should  have  known 

How  dizzily  the  seasons  flew, 
For  now  the  world  is  blizzard  blown 

And  all  the  harvesting  is  through ! 

So  stealthily  my  summer  crept — 

So  swift  my  youthfulness  was  spun — 
Now  all  my  world  is  blizzard  swept — 

And  oh,  the  slender  harvest  done! 

19 


CITY    DUST 

THE  BASKET  LINE 

They  swayed  in  a  zigzag,  shivering  file 

And  they  stamped  their  stiffened  feet, 
And  always  there  spread  the  ghost  of  a  smile 

As  the  line  crawled  up  the  street; 
And  one  fought  mad  for  his  narrow  place, 

And  one  groped  blind  and  dumb, 
And  one  was  gay  on  the  whole  long  way, 

And  one  had  a  soul  gone  numb. 

And  one  had  eyes  like  a  starless  night, 

And  lips  of  a  jade-green-hue, 
And  skin  that  was  stretched  so  yellow  and  tight 

That  the  skeleton  gibbered  through; 
And  some  were  warm  with  a  Christmas  hope, 

And  some  were  chilled  with  fears, 
And  some  had  known  gaps,  between  meals  perhaps, 

But  the  most  had  been  starved  for  years. 

And  some  of  them  thought  it  was  jolly  fine — 

Like  playing  a  winning  game, 
And  some  went  redder  than  red,  red  wine 

And  spilt  their  tears  of  shame ; 
And  warped  little  lads  came  mumbling  up 

With  a  "Sir,  if  youz  don't  care — 
My  Pa  is  dead  and  my  Ma  she  said 

That  I  was  to  bring  our  share." 

And  they  thought  they  came  for  a  chunk  of  meat 

And  a  pound  of  whitest  rice, 
And  a  jar  of  jam  and  a  frosted  sweet, 

And  a  pudding  done  with  spice; 
But  they  didn't  ache  for  that  loaf  of  bread, 

Nor  that  bone  nor  that  bag  of  meal — 
They  shivered  along,  three  thousand  strong — 

For  their  share  of  the  Christmas  feel! 

20 


CITY   DUST 
THE  LUNGER  ON  THE  ROOF 

I  feel  so  light — so  happy  and  light — up  here  in  the  dancin' 
sun — 

As  though  the  jobs  in  the  world  below  me  are  all  checked  up 
and  done; 

And  it  seems  to  me  that  dreamin'  a  bit,  makes  me  long  for 
dreamin'  more, 

For  I  never  in  all  my  life  had  the  chance  for  sittin'  and  dream- 
in'  before. 

I  guess  five  years  was  a  little  young,  for  peddlin'  the  daily 

sheet, 
But  there  wasn't  no  kid  that  was  twice  my  size  with  a  better 

payin'  beat; 
And  once  I  lived  like  a  loafer,  too — for  a  whole  long  summer 

day, 
On  the  warm,  brown  sands  of  Coney,  asleep  in  the  ticklin' 

spray. 

But  a  feller  can't  idle  his  life  away  with  the  world  so  full  of 

men, 
So  I  got  me  a  job  at  braidin'  skirts  when  I  wasn't  no  more'n 

ten; 
My  fingers  is  somewhat  shy  on  nails  and  my  thumb  is  queer, 

I'm  afraid, 
But  there  ain't  no  time  for  pettin'  your  hooks  when  you're 

learnin'  the  sweat-shop-trade! 

When  ours  was  comin'  my  woman  and  me  just  thrashed  the 
whole  thing  out, 

And  we  voted  for  sleep  and  play  and  air  and  none  o'  your 
paper  route; 

I  used  to  feel  that  pull  in  my  chest  when  I  bent  on  my  low- 
backed  stool 

But  I  said,  "Old  man  you  keep  that  mum,  till  the  four's 
through  grammar  school." 

21 


CITY    DUST 

I'm  thinner  than  that  poor  lad  that  slept  over  there  by  the 

south-side  wall; 

But  I  can't  be  goin'  to  die  like  him,  for  I  don't  feel  sick  atall ; 
I  just  feel  happy  and  kinder  g-ay,  like  plannin'  an  awful  lot — 
But  I'm  drowsin'  away  so  much  of  late  and  I  wake  and  it's  all 

forgot. 

I  guess  it's  a  sort  of  makin'  up  for  the  time  I  didn't  sleep, 
And  a  holidayin'  the  whole  week  round  for  the  Sundays  I 

didn't  keep ; 

When  I  am  well  I'm  goin'  to  get  me  an  open  stand  some 
where — 
The  doctor  says  that's  what  I   need — the  doc — tor — says — 

fresh — air. 
I'm  dozin'  again — it  makes  me  forget  and  I  wanted  so  much 

to  tell — 
When  I  get  well — I'm  goin'  to — goin'  to — goin' — when  I  get 

— we — 1 

A  LITTLE  CHILD  SHALL  LEAD  THEM 

Together  we  went  laughing  down  the  crowded  pleasure  ways 

And  nothing  ever  mattered  but  the  beauty  of  the  days ; 

We  ate  when  we  were  hungry  and  we  slept  when  we  were  worn, 

We  mended  up  our  garments  when  they  showed  where  they  were 

torn; 

We  never  thought  of  money  till  our  shabby  pockets  yawned — 
Then  we  suffered  or  we  labored  or  we  borrowed  or  we  pawned. 

But  now  we  are  crooning  the  old  lullabies 

And  kissing  its  dimples,  its  hair  and  its  eyes; 

And  dozing  away  with  the  small  chickadees 

And  rising  ahead  of  the  smartest  of  these. 
Together  we  sit  watching  through  the  winter  window-pane 
With  our  fingers  knitted  closely  when  the  longing  comes  again ; 
And  once  we  tried  to  follow  but  we  found  that  we  were  old 
And  the  niche  that  we  deserted  had  been  crowded  twenty-fold : 
The  calm  of  life  is  gentle  and  the  calm  of  life  is  sweet 
But  the  thrill  of  life  goes  marching  with  the  pageant  up  the 
street ! 

22 


CITY  DUST 
THE  OLD  DEBT 

It  come  on  him  jest  twenty  year  ago; 

The  moon-shine  done  it — least  that's  what  they  say 
But  sometimes  I  get  thinkin' — I  dunno — 

He'd  been  a  plowin'  in  the  sun  all  day. 
That  night  he  got  to  ravin'  in  his  head 
And  no  one  couldn't  make  out  what  he  said. 

And  when  the  fever  went,  it  took  his  perk 
And  left  him  addled — nothin'  fierce  nor  wild: 

Jest  weakly  so  he  couldn't  do  no  work 
And  humble  like  a  little  whimperin'  child ; 

I  rolled  up  both  my  sleeves  as  women  do 

And  since  that  time  I've  earned  the  salt  for  two. 

The  village  folks  is  always  pesterin'  me 

To  send  him  to  The  Home — they  say  it's  best : 

But  in  my  heart  is  things  that  folks  can't  see 
The  kind  of  things  that  never  lets  you  rest. 

He'll  never,  never  go  while  I  can  fight — 

I'd  hear  him  cryin'  for  me  in  the  night. 

I  weave  my  carpet  rags  and  put  up  jell, 
And  scrub  the  .Hotel  floor  to  Hawketville; 

In  Summer  time  there's  veg'tables  to  sell; 
In  Fall  I  take  my  apples  to  the  mill. 

I  get  so  tuckered  out  I  nearly  drop — 

But  mercy  on  my  soul,  I  never  stop. 

Last  year  I  sent  and  got  a  picture  book — 

He  loves  it  so  he  drags  it  all  about; 
Sometimes  he  plays  he's  fishin'  in  the  brook 

And  I  pretend  to  pull  the  fishes  out. 
When  we  was  young — I  wasn't  square  to  him — - 
Alright — don't  cry — I'm  comin'  to  you  Jim! 


23 


CITY    DUST 

THE  PRACTICAL  VISIONARY 

To  you,  my  life's  a  deadly  bore 
Because  I've  done  at  least  one  chore 

When  daylight  really  breaks ; 
Because  I'm  up  and  building  fires 
And  thinking  of  my  brood's  desires 

Before  the  first  awakes. 

You  think  my  body's  like  a  man's 
From  milking  cows  and  scraping  pans 

And  bathing  in  the  streams. 
Ah  dear,  I  wish  that  you  could  see 
The  inner  consciousness  of  me : — 

A  circus  tent  of  dreams ! 

That  shrieked  alarm  that  tore  your  nerves, 
Brought  back  at  dawn,  blue  Como's  curves 

And  tolling  cloister  bells ; 
'That  hurried  meal  by  candle-light 
Was  like  one  quaint  primordial  night 

I  spent  on  Scottish  Fells. 
t-   ' 

And  when  my  boys  went  out  to  play 
I  saw  them  men — some  future  day 

Fulfilling  sacred  wishes. 
Take  back  your  pity — save  your  sigh 
THink  you  if  suds  were  real  that  I 

Could  bear  to  wash  these  dishes? 

THE  ORACLE  SPEAKS 
God-spilt  rain-drops,  glint  and  beat 
Down  upon  the  granite  street! 
Ribboned,  sunlit,  chrystal  flood: 
Know  your  end  is  gutter  mud ! 


24 


CITY   DUST 

Love,  you  joyous  splendid  thing 
With  your  royal  purple  wing, 
With  your  jasmine-flowered  breath: 
Know  the  end  of  you  is  death ! 

THE  STRIKER 

It  was  Christmas  Eve  and  I  looked  at  my  paint, 

And  it  sickened  my  guts — the  sight, 
And  I  went  to  the  Madam  and  says,  "I  ain't 

A  goin'  to  work  tonight." 

And  I  sneaked  to  a  church  where  they  had  a  tree, 

And  I  got  me  a  place  to  sit, 
And  I  sung — you'd  never  have  know'd  it  was  me — 

I  thought  my  gullet  'ud  split. 

Oh,  gee  I  was  pullin'  the  handsome  bluff, 

Pretendin'  that  I  was  grand — 
The  ladies  they  give  me  a  box  of  stuff, 

And  one  of  'em  squeezed  my  hand. 

But  I  never  come  close  to  a  single  child, 

For  I  ain't  that  manner  of  scum, 
But  the  motherin'  part  of  my  brain  went  wild 

And  I  crawled  home  staggerin'  dumb. 

And  I  rubbed  the  smear  from  my  achin'  face 

And  I  cried  till  I  couldn't  see, 
And  I  swore  I'd  snatch  my  woman's  place 

That  heaven  had  meant  for  me. 

"Oh,  what's  the  use?"  says  my  red,  red  paint, 

"Of  lookin'  a  jade-green  sight?" 
So  I  went  to  work  for  I  guess  there  ain't 

Much  use  in  wastin'  a  night. 

25 


CITY    DUST 
FIFTH  AVENUE  PHILOSOPHY 

If  someone  comes  to  dull  the  light 

When  morning  suns  are  streaming, 
And  makes  things  lovely  for  your  sight 

While  you  lie  idly  dreaming; 
If  someone  smoothes  your  silken  hair 

And  serves  you  cake  and  honey — 
Then  why  should  you  reflect  or  care 

Who  furnishes  the  money? 

If  you're  a  lovely,  lovely  queen 

Beswathed  in  silk  and  sables, 
Parading  in  your  limousine 

While  humans  live  in  stables; 
If  wretched  children  hurry  by — 

As  pale  as  alabaster 
And  misery  offends  your  eye — 

Why — drive  a  little  faster! 

If  George  toils  long  and  hard  to  earn 

Enough  to  flaunt  your  banners, 
And  then  comes  home  too  tired  to  learn 

The  newest  parlor  manners; 
And  if  he  yawns — the  dunder-head — 

Too  sleepy  for  your  teaching, 
Why  let  the  poor  simp  go  to  bed— - 

And  you  go  on  machiching! 


26 


CITY   DUST 

THE  GOOD  OLD  TALES 

Those  good  old  tales  my  mother  told — 
That  lies  are  black  and  truth  is  gold! 
That  he  who  bides  with  truth  alone, 
Shall  rule  upon  a  gilded  throne! 
That  truth  will  crown  the  humblest  head 
And  rise  when  all  the  earth  is  dead! 


And  so  when  I  had  sinned,  I  came 

With  all  my  stricken  soul  aflame 

And  sank  before  my  Love  and  told 

The  TRUTH— because  the  TRUTH  is  gold ! 

With  ink-black  tongue  and  blows  of  blood 

He  thrust  me  down  into  the  mud! 


I  rose  and  wiped  my  slimy  skirt 
And  salved  the  wounds  where  I  was  hurt, 
And  lifted  up  my  scarlet  face 
And  held  my  body  straight  with  grace ! 
Unlearned  the  tales  that  mother  told — 
And  straightway  found  my  throne  of  gold ; 
And  there  I  watch  poor  TRUTH  limp  by- 
While  I — I  laugh  aloud  and  lie! 


THE  BRAVERY  OF  LOVE 

We  wed  in  the  lovely  fresh  of  things 

When  the  roses  blossom  red, 
As  a  challenge  athwart  the  cold  gray  wings 

Of  winter — flapping  ahead. 

27 


CITY   DUST 

REAL  BABIES! 

O,  a  dream-baby  smiles  in  a  whimsical  way, 
But  a  real-baby  gurgles  and  screams 

And  rollicks  about  in  a  lustier  play 

Than  the  babies  we  know  in  our  dreams. 

A  dream-baby's  breath  is  as  cool  as  the  snow 

And  its  loving,  is  pale  as  the  moon, 
But  a  real-baby's  breath  is  like  lillies  that  grow 

In  the  warm-hearted  sweetness  of  June. 

A  dream-baby's  kiss  is  a  silvery  wraith, 

A  wan  little  cloud-crested  seal — 
But  a  real-baby's  kisses  rekindle  our  faith 

For  a  real-baby's  kisses  are  real ! 

CHILDREN 

Made  out  of  mistletoe,  bubbles  and  holly, 
Guarded  with  kisses  and  aching  and  folly; 
Who  could  foretell  by  your  dimples  and  laughter 
The  treacherous  pain  that  is  bound  to  come  after? 
But  wait!     In  the  end  you  will  win  for  your  folly- 
Your  own  little  mistletoe,  bubbles  and  holly! 


28 


CITY   DUST 

THE  LYRIC  OF  LIFE 

Because  the  world  seemed  warped  and  wrong 
I  stayed  within  to  write  a  song — 

A  rhythmic  woodland  fancy. 
I  wanted  men  to  dance  and  sing 
With  forest  freedom,  swirl  and  swing 

To  nature's  necromancy. 

The  hill-sides  called  my  truant  mind; 
I  turned  away  and  drew  the  blind 

Against  the  sunny  flickers. 
But  though  the  gloom  hung  thick  I  found 
I  could  not  still  the  luring  sound 

Of  laughing  berry-pickers. 

And  from  the  bridge  there  came  a  shout — 
My  boy  had  duped  a  speckled  trout, 

His  first  successful  fishing; 
I  pressed  my  eyes  to  cheat  the  tears 
But  still  the  outside  charmed  my  ears — 

I  could  not  stay  the  wishing. 

Then  Lassie  growled  with  discontent; 
The  summer  breeze  had  blown  a  scent 

Of  strangers  in  the  Hollow; 
And  someone  shouted  loud  my  name — 
The  echo  charmed  me;  when  it  came 

I  knew  that  I  must  follow. 

Great  God!    To  shut  out  sun  and  trees 
And  then  in  gloom  to  sing  of  these! — 

My  sin  was  past  forgiving. 
Out  doors  I  rushed  with  bursting  heart, 
My  song  unsung;  for  art  is  art 

But  life  is  more — it's  living! 

29 


CITY   DUST 
INVOCATION 

High  noon !    Above  me  rides  the  run — 
So  much  to  do,  so  little  done. 
I  hope  that  I  may  always  see 
My  job  and  labor  honestly; 
And  when  I've  settled  every  score, 
May  moonvines  shade  my  cottage  door 
And  pansies  make  the  walk  so  gay 
That  little  ones  will  stop  to  play. 
Some  books,  the  sunlight  and  the  air, 
A  crackling  hearth,  a  bite  to  share. 
Lord  give  me  this  and  then  consign 
A  gentle,  withered,  hand  to  mine. 

LOVE  IS  BEST 

How  fair  to  stride  the  world 

With  golden  medals  glinting  on  thy  breast, 
Thy  slickened  locks  with  chaplets  intercurled — 

But  always  love  is  best. 

How  good  to  view  thy  lands 

With  swishing  wheat  and  poppy-blooms  abreast, 
With  reins  of  power  clutched  within  thy  hands — 

But  always  love  is  best. 

The  twain  thou  shalt  not  glean, 

(And  power  is  a  blunt  and  boresome  guest) 
So  gather  roses  while  the  heart  is  clean — 

For  always  love  is  best. 


30 


CITY   DUST 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  GUTTER-SNIPE 

I've  a  garden  box  of  flowers  just  within  my  window  sill — 
Clustered  violets  and  roses,  heliotrope  and  daffodil, 
And  the  peacocks  strut  among  them  drinking  water  from 

a  spring 

And  the  tree-tops  are  a-flutter  with  the  birds  that  never  sing; 
How  I  love  the  trailing  vines ! 
And  the  pines! 
And  the  tiny  little  steeples  with  the  bells  that  never  ring! 


And  my  birds  are  never  hungry  and  my  leaves  are  never  dry 
For  my  box  is  made  of  creton  where  the  roses  never  die ; 
How  I  rest  among  the  flowers  in  my  dingy  room  at  night 
With  my  hands  on  big  red  roses  and  my  throbbing  throat 
drawn  tight. 

And  the  grind  is  all  a  blot 
And  forgot — 
For  it's  summer  all  the  winter  when  my  garden  is  in  sight. 


Someone  told  me  that  the  flowers  in  the  country  really  bloom 
And  the  birds  keep  up  a  chorus  just  as  steady  as  a  loom. 
Oh  it  must  be  fairyland  I  think  for  any  farmer's  wife 
With  a  lot  of  song  birds  going  like  a  zither  or  a  fife. 
My!     How  wonderful  it  seems 
In  my  dreams. 

Just  like  bolts  and  bolts  of  creton  all  rolled  out  and  come 
to  life ! 


31 


CITY   DUST 

THE  TENEMENT  HOUSE  OFFICE 

A  room  slashed  through  the  middle  by  a  railing — 
Behind  it  stands  the  agent — fat — crop-glutted! 

Before  it  droops  the  tenant  woman,  paling — 

"My  man — mahsheen!  'es  gat  hees  fingars  cutted!" 
Mahsheen!  my  man!  'es  gat  hees  fingars  cutted!" 

"Five  days  you've  had  by  law — tonight  you're  going!" 
Next  comes  a  battered  thing  with  good  intention; 

She  digs  into  her  pocket — footsteps  slowing — 
And  fetches  up  her  widowed-mother's-pension — 
Her  meagre,  little,  widowed-mother's-pension. 

A  withered  lad  stands  by  and  shifts  his  crutches — 
A  weary,  starved,  unhallowed  son  of  sorrow ; — 

He  drips  some  silver  from  his  sweaty  clutches — 
"My  mama  says  she'll  bring  the  rest  tomorrow — 
She's  got  a  job — she'll  bring  the  rest  tomorrow." 

Next  bangs  the  door  with  pride — the  brassy  strumpet— 
Bepainted,  furbelowed,  untemperamental ; 

Her  laugh  is  like  the  cracking  of  a  trumpet! 

Just  now  she  laughs  for  someone  pays  the  rental — 
The  very  small  but  dearly  purchased,  rental! 

All  day  and  every  day — the  railing  quivers 

With  limpy  hands  and  hands  that  ache  and  flutter; — 

With  drab  humanity  that  begs  and  shivers 

For  one  more  night  before  it  feels  the  gutter — 
The  ever-gaping — phantom-crowded  gutter! 


32 


CITY   DUST 

PENELOPE  OF  THE  TENEMENTS 

The  noonday  bursts  upon  the  Avenue, 

With  scrape  and  scuffle  of  a  million  feet ; 
Untethered  children  try  their  throats  anew, 

And  angry  mothers  bawl  and  babies  bleat ; 
The  dinning  motors  crash  across  the  granite! 
The  cracking  whips  resound  to  star  and  planet! 

The  world  whirls  in  a  cyclone  up  the  street! 
Within  the  shadow  of  a  narrow  door 

Where  garbage  buckets  slattern  in  a  row; 
Where  starving  cats  lie  limply  on  the  floor, 

And  stranded  chicken  feathers  twirl  and  blow — 
A  woman  stands,  forever  waiting — waiting, 
Like  some  encloistered  sister  at  a  grating, 

Too  slack  of  will  to  slip  the  bolts  and  go. 
The  corner  butcher  comes  outside  and  smiles, 

But  angrily,  she  swerves  the  other  way, 
The  Yiddish  tailor — furbisher  of  styles, 

Grins  by  and  bids  her  haughtiness  good-day ; 
The  grocery  merchant  nods  in  loves  delusion. 
The  ribbon  clerk  looks  up  in  red  confusion — 

And  still  she  has  no  single  word  to  say. 
The  good  old  mother,  worships  with  the  rest; — 

She  slips  a  sturdy  chair  up  close  and  then 
Goes  whispering  about  the  wonder  West, 

Where  vagrant  husbands  change  to  noblemen. 
Her  offspring  wearied  out  by  stale  invention, 
Waves  back  the  words  with  pompous  inattention, 

And  turns  upon  the  Avenue  again. 
Penelope,  go  choose  another  mate ! 

Put  on  the  ribboned  dress  that  you  forswore! 
No  eye  stays  bright — no  lip  stays  roseate ! 

Choose  now  before  they  shun  the  shadowed  door! 
In  Vagabondia,  bread  is  full  of  savor! 

Home  lights  are  good  but  unknown  lights  are  braver- 
Odysseus  will  come  to  you  no  more! 

33 


CITY   DUST 
THE  ORACLE 

Yes  crown  your  women — keep  them  sweet 
In  perfumed  gauze  from  head  to  feet; 
And  fill  their  palms  with  precious  toys 
And  plan  for  them,  swift,  subtle  joys ; 

And  give  them  babies  on  their  knees 
And  golden  coins  to  waste  on  these ; 
And  buy  them  wonder-blooms  to  wear 
And  carven  combs  to  gird  their  hair; 

And  turquoise  lakes  with  slender  boats — 
Then  press  your  kisses  on  their  throats ; 
Make  all  the  stars  their  diadem — 
But  never  tell  the  truth  to  them! 


WHEREFORE? 

Out  of  a  youthful  yonder, 

Into  the  every  day, 
They  met  for  an  hour's  wonder 

And  each  one  turned  away; 

And  each  with  another  nested, 
And  Love  with  a  weary  sigh, 

Stumbled  within  and  rested — 
There  is  no  reason  why. 


34 


CITY    DUST 

THE  WIDOWED  MOTHER 

Oh,  listen !  listen !  God  above  me  please ! 

I'm  asking  only  for  a  little  thing — 
To  keep  my  babies  close  about  my  knees 

And  hear  their  shouts  and  laughter  echoing. 
I  sew  until  my  eyes  are  turned  to  stone, 

And  starve  myself  until  my  lips  are  blue, 
My  finger-tips  are  bruised  down  to  the  bone — 

Oh,  God,  what  can  I  do  ? 

I've  pawned  the  locket  and  the  dear,  worn  ring, 

And  stumbled  through  the  dark  to  save  the  light — 
I've  sold  my  bed  for  what  old  iron  would  bring, 

And  gathered  firewood  like  a  ghost  at  night. 
And  yet  tomorrow  morning  we  must  go! 

Go?     But  go  where?     Oh  if  I  only  knew! 
And  winter  nearly  here  with  wind  and  snow! 

Dear  God,  what  can  I  do? 

There's  nothing  in  this  world  like  motherhood — 

The  agony  of  love  that  drives  you  wild! 
The  choking  rush  of  joy!    The  Lord  is  good — 

There's  nothing  pulls  your  heartstrings  like  a  child. 
Look  at  them  smiling — dreaming  there  in  bed! 

The  moonlight  all  on  purpose  comes  to  shine 
Just  like  a  halo  round  about  each  head! 

Thank  God  they're  mine!     They're  mine! 

They're  mine  until  the  daylight  comes  once  more, 

And  then  they'll  not  be  mine — ah  but  it  hurts ! 
All  gone  the  little  skips  across  the  floor! 

All  gone  the  little  hands  that  tug  my  skirts! 
And  then  whose  arms  will  fold  them  after  play? 

Who'll  know  to  guide  them  straight  and  love  them  too? 
It's  dawn !     Across  the  moonlight  comes  the  day — 

My  God!     What  can  I  do? 

35 


CITY   DUST 
HALLOO ! 

Up  and  down  the  earth! 

Past  the  wild  roses, 

Past  the  golden-rod, 

Past  the  burnt  Autumn  boughs, 

To  the  snow-drifts. 

Wild  roses  are  youth  and  love  and  pain ; 

The  golden-rod  swaggers  with  wounded  bravery; 

Autumn  boughs  burn  with  passionate  regret; 

The  snow-drifts  melt; 

Death. 

Up  and  down  the  earth  go  all  the  people ; 

In  the  Spring — another  robin ! 


THE  HARVESTER 

All  day,  one  day,  I  slaved  away 

With  my  fillet  of  silken  floss ; 
The  stitches  twinkled  like  glints  on  the  bay 
But  I  hated  the  work  that  I  wrought  that  day- 

So  the  hours  were  shameless  loss! 


All  day,  one  day,  I  dozed  and  dreamed 

To  the  lyric  of  falling  rain, 

I  laughed  with  the  drops  as  they  spilt  and  gleamed- 
I  raced  with  the  scud  as  it  whisked  and  creamed — 

And  these  hours  were  golden  gain ! 


36 


CITY   DUST 
CHRISTMAS  NIGHT 

The  city  roofs  are  wedding-caked  with  snow. 

Down  from  the  moon  tumbles  a  lavender-gray  light 

Like  the  chiffon  veils  of  second  mourning. 

I  hurry  through  the  gauzy  night  high  up  to  my  little  nest 

On  the  sky-light  floor  of  a  great  horse-shoe  building  of  brick 

and  granite. 

The  front  wings  are  costly  and  face  the  street. 
I  am  cheap  and  face  the  heavens. 

I  can  see  the  great  middle  that  bellies  back  into  the  alley-way. 
Each  little  nest  with  a  tiny  little  parlor, 
Each  little  parlor  with  a  tiny  little  tree. 

Bobbing  on  the  branches,  glass  birds — red,  blue,  green,  purple, 
With  electric  lights  in  their  insides. 
Tinsel,  popcorn,  ropes  of  candy. 
Down  in  the  court  by  the  side  of  the  fountain 
The  little  german  band, 

"O  Tannenbaum,  O   Tannenbaum,   wie  gruen   sind   deine 

Blaetter ! 

Du  gruenst  nicht  nur  zur  Sommerzeit, 
Im  Winter  auch,  wenn's  friert  und  schneit, 
O  Tannenbaum,  O  Tannenbaum.     Wie    gruen    sind    deine 

Blaetter!" 

Fairy  children  flitting  in  the  shadows  dance  to  the  music. 
Windows  fly  up  and  paper-wrapped  pennies  pitch  out  to  the 

court-yard. 

The  cornettist  stops  in  the  middle  of  a  measure 
To  scrape  in  the  snow  for  the  money. 
Windows  bang! — The  band  moves  on. 
From  the  next  court — unclear — 
"Here  we  come  a-wassailing 

Among  the  leaves  so  green, 
Here  we  come  a-wandering, 
So  fair  to  be  seen. 


37 


CITY   DUST 

Love  and  joy  come  to  you, 
And  to  you  your  wassail  too, 
And  God  bless  you,  and  send  you 

A  happy  new  year. 

And  God  send  you  a  happy  new  year." 
I  know  there  are  more  pennies. 

I  hear  the  false  notes,  the  unreasoning:  stops.     Silence. 
Far  off  the  valiant  music  of  the  little  german  band. 
Shadows  disappear  from  the  windows. 
The  lights  go  out  in  their  insides — the  little  glass  birds — red, 

blue,  green,  purple.     They  grow  so  cold. 
Down  on  the  roofs  wedding-caked  with  snow 
Tumbles  the  lavender-gray  light  from  the  moon. 
From  the  melting  icicles — drip — drip — drip  on  my  sky-light. 
Christmas  night  with  the  lavender-gray  light  tumbling  down 

from  the  moon 

Like  the  chiffon  veils  of  second  mourning:. 
Christmas  night 
Loneliness  in  my  heart  and 
Silence. 


38 


CITY   DUST 

"NIGGER  TILLY" 

The  best  cook 

And  the  slickest  thief 

In  the  state  of  Texas. 

She  would  have  stolen  the  golden  candle-sticks 

From  the  very  throne  of  God, 

To  light  the  way  for  one  she  loved — 

And  she  loved  me. 

That  was  Tilly's  code. 

Generous,  insane,  romantic, 

An  ape  even  to  copying  the  jerking  limp  of  her  mistress, 

A  slave  where  she  loved, 

A  viper  where  she  hated — 

That  was  Tilly's  character. 

An  ashy  face  greased  with  bacon  rind, 

A  ragged  scar  on  her  left  cheek — 

From  lip  to  ear, 

Where 

One  raging  Othello 

Had  nearly  loved  her  to  death. 

Fat  breasts,  uncorseted, 

That  hammocked  my  head  to  sleep. 

Long  gorilla  arms  that  reached  me 

No  matter  where  I  hid. 

A  heart  so  big  it  made  me  wonder 

That  one  skin  could  house  so  much  of  goodness — 

That  was  Tilly! 

A  dead  shot  with  a  rock — 

I  have  seen  her  toss  a  pebble 

And  end  the  merry-making  of  a  fly; 

I  have  seen  her  hurl  a  stone 

And  pick  off  my  neighbor's  fan-tail  pigeon.  .    .    . 


39 


CITY   DUST 

TILLY'S  APOLOGY 

"I's  down-right  bad,  Miss  Rosie, 
But  the  good  Gawd  know'd  I'd  be, 
When  he  gone  squanderin'  pashion 
Like  he  done  done  in  me! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FAMILY  HORSE 

"Pore  old  Clebeland— 

Dar  he  lay, 
An'  his  sperret  ain't  to  trubble 

Till  de  jedgement  day, 
But  he  carcass  guine  be  meltin' 

Widout  no  hope — 
Into  yaller  wropped  packages 

Of  soap,  soap,  soap! 

She  raised  us  all 

Then  hung  about  without  any  usefulness, 

A  dark  expected  spot  on  the  landscape, 

Something  with  its  roots  driven  deep  into  the  memory  of  things — 

Ignored 

Like  a  weather-beaten  hitching-post, 

After  the  family  is  driving  a  six-cylinder. 

One  day  there  was  a  new  look  in  her  eye — 

The  white  shot  with  red, 

The  black  stretched  and  greedy. 

She  threaded  the  handle  of  her  dish  pan  with  a  ribband 

And  marching  'round  and  'round  the  house 

Thundered  upon  the  tin  with  an  iron  bar 

Chanting : — 

"My  poker  am  my  fife, 

An'  my  pan  am  my  drum; 

Gawd  dam  de  niggers — 

An'  a  BUM/   BUM//   BUM/// 

40 


CITY   DUST 

They  came — those  officers — 

And  chased  Nigger  Tilly; 

Ten  million  years  back  she  went, 

Clawing  her  way  up  into  an  acorn  tree, 

And  there  on  a  branch  she  chittered  and  jibbered, 

"My  poker  am  my  fife, 

An'  my  pan  am  my  drum; 

Gawd  damn  de  niggers — 

An'  a  BUM/  BUM//  BUM/// 

Down  she  fell 

And  lumped     • 

Like  the  sack  of  carrots  in  the  cellar. 

They  shoved  her  onto  a  board  and  hurried  away. 

All  that  mangled  goodness  still  murmuring1 — 

"My  poker  am  my  fife, 

An'  my  pan  am  my  drum; 

Gawd  damn  de  niggers — 

An'  a  BUM// — bum! — bu — " 


FORSAKEN 

The  moonvines  trail  from  the  window-sill, 
The  poppies  flame  from  the  stalk, 

The  mignonette  and  the  daffodil 
Are  nodding  along  the  walk. 

The  shades  are  high  on  the  crystal  pane 
And  the  sun  comes  revelling  through, 

To  make  me  young  and  happy  again 
As  loving  him  used  to  do. 

And  the  people  pass  and  the  people  grin 
For  my  love  has  wandered  away — 

Away  from  me  and  the  warm  within, 
Out  where  the  world  is  gay. 

41 


CITY   DUST 

And  the  kettle  bubbles  as  merrily 

And  the  logs  flame  even  as  red, 
But  my  love  has  wandered  away  from  me — 

And  the  soul  of  my  house  is  dead. 

CONSECRATION 

And  better  than  all  the  furious  blast 

Where  the  white-hot  passions  ride, 
Is  the  silvery  silence  that  comes  at  last 

When  the  soul  is  satisfied. 

YOUTHFULNESS  PLEADS 

Oh,  fill  my  arms  with  daffodils, 

And  wreathe  my  soul  in  dreams, 
And  build  me  lacey  palaces,  oh,  men! 

And  let  me  find  the  wonder-world  as  lovely  as  it  seems — 
For  I  never  can  be  beautiful  again! 

There's  time  enough  for  charity, 

For  spectacles  and  books, 
There's  time  to  drip  my  heart's  blood  from  my  pen, 

There's  time  for  bitter  bickering  and  bitter,  bitter  looks- 
But  I  never  can  be  beautiful  again! 

So  hide  your  puling  imbeciles, 

Your  old  and  sick  and  vile, 
And  keep  the  fear  of  age  beyond  my  ken, 

For  youth  is  full  of  lovliness,  a  very  little  while — 
And  I  never  can  be  beautiful  again! 


42 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  of  The  New  York  Times,  Much 
Ado,  Munsey's  Magazine,  Cavalier-All  Story,  Boston  Cooking 
School  Magazine,  St.  Louis  Post  Dispatch,  The  New  York  Call 
and  The  Masses  for  leave  to  reprint  these  verses. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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